Courage
by EllisHendricks
Summary: Post series 4. After his phone call from Sherrinford, Sherlock needs to explain a few things to Molly, but apparently he also needs some help building up his courage. Unashamedly Sherlolly; starts a bit angsty, but ends sweetly. Rated T for a bit of language and a reference to 'adult fun'.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Molly wrung out the dishcloth and ran it along the kitchen worktop. To the naked eye, it already looked clean, but of course she knew way too much about bacteria and it was sort of a force of habit. There was something comforting and ritualistic about it, too – the same process she went through at the end of the day in the lab, wiping away all traces of the day's grim activities and preparing for what the next day would bring.

Today was one of those days that she was thankful that all of her clients were dead. Aside from brief, passing interactions with colleagues requesting or passing on information, and a quick call from Mike Stamford, she had been alone – but crucially, alone and busy. Alone and with time on her hands could have made for a train-wreck.

She was alone now, of course, although hadn't been for long. Just as she'd been about to make dinner, she'd had a call from Mycroft Holmes – who revealed that he was outside her house, along with several government techs, who proceeded to sweep her home for hidden cameras. That particularly horrible intrusion and the reasons behind it were then explained to her by Mycroft, but not in his usual detached, superior, business-like manner. He didn't hide his guilt – or expressions of guilt - over everything that had happened, and his culpability in all this was still sinking in for Molly. However, he'd seemed genuinely surprised that she hadn't heard from – or seen – Sherlock. It seemed to knock him sideways momentarily.

As the story was unfolded before her, Molly felt like she'd experienced the full spectrum of emotions – that was until Mycroft got to the part that involved the phone call, when she realised that he was just getting started. He'd been there - John too - so they'd seen and heard her pain, her humiliation, her total vulnerability. But now she understood – the phone call that had led to her weeping on the floor of her kitchen, exhausted, her feelings red raw, had been made with the best of intentions, hadn't it? Sherlock had been trying to save her life. At least she mattered that much.

Of course, Mycroft didn't venture too far into the words that she and Sherlock had exchanged last night – such was his obvious discomfort - and that was a relief. But before he left, he took a pen-drive from his briefcase and plugged it into his laptop. Without a word, he played the grainy footage from a CCTV camera – the immediate aftermath of the phone call. She had watched as Sherlock buried his face in his hands, gun held tightly in one of them, before remonstrating with his unseen sister. Then she witnessed Sherlock doing something she'd never seen before – lose control. The raw violence and rage had gripped at Molly's heart, as she watched Sherlock demolish the coffin that was meant for her, before collapsing – defeated – on the floor.

"Forgive him," was all that Mycroft had said, quietly. "Forgive both of us."

So now she had the full facts, but it didn't make her feel any better. She had still had a painful confession ripped from her, one she had kept secret for the sake of her own dignity, as well as for the integrity of her friendship with the man she loved. At least before the phone call, Molly knew where she stood – a classic case of unrequited, unreciprocated love. But that had been thrown into confusion, not only by the actions she witnessed on the video footage, but also by Sherlock's words – that second declaration of love. She'd demanded that he say it like he meant it – if he was hell-bent on hurting her, she was at least going to make it uncomfortable for him. When he forced himself to utter the words, he sounded - as she expected he would - like a bad actor, aware of the weight of the words and how precisely he needed to deliver them.

But then he said it again, unbidden, and a key had turned in the lock – she couldn't help but say the words back to him.

But now more than twenty-four hours of silence had passed. No texts, no phone calls, no Sherlock suddenly appearing in her living room. She felt like an idiot for expecting otherwise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Shot through with exhaustion, Molly started towards her bathroom. But then she heard the ping of a text alert. She doubled back to the living room, where her phone was resting on the arm of the sofa.

 **Is Sherlock with you? – JW**

With a sigh, she replied.

 **No. Haven't heard from him – MHx**

She started to head back to the bathroom as she waited for a further response, and got a shock when her phone rang instead.

"Molly, hi," John began, his voice soft and tentative. "I'm, ah, I'm sorry to call you so late. I was just…I understand Mycroft has been round to see you? I'm sorry I haven't been in touch today; it's been crazy, what with everything that's happened, with the flat being a shell, with…god…I don't know where to begin."

"It's okay," Molly reassured him. Like her, John was just collateral damage. "You're home with your little girl – that's what's important."

"I'm sorry that you were…caught up in everything," John replied, carefully. He was a good man, Molly acknowledged, with a good deal of emotional intelligence. "I just…I thought Sherlock would be with you, that's all. When I left him this morning, he said that's what he was going to do. He assured me….told me he needed to do it."

Molly felt her words catch in her throat.

"He's been through a lot," she managed to say. "I expect he's…working through some things."

"Okay," John replied, gently. "Okay. Well, will you let me know if he shows up there?"

He was worried about his friend, she understood. Sherlock Holmes didn't have a record of making sensible choices. Despite herself – despite everything – she felt that concern, too.

Then, there was a knock at the front door. The silhouette in the glass panel was unmistakable, and Molly felt her chest tighten.

 **He's here - MHx**

The moments between knowing he was there and actually opening the door seemed like an eternity. But there was never any chance she wouldn't open it.

When she did, Molly immediately knew something was slightly off. One of Sherlock's hands was on the doorframe, the other stuffed into the pocket of his Belstaff; he was leaning slightly, and seemed to be struggling to focus on her.

Her phone vibrated in her hand – a response from John.

 **God, is he drunk? - JW**

Molly sighed. Yes, that was it.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock said, with a wonky smile.

 **Yes. Very. – MHx**

 **Found the empty Scotch bottle. The vintage one I got for Christmas – JW**

"Hi, Sherlock," she replied, as he lurched slightly towards her.

"Can I…is it okay if I come in?"

"You already are," she told him, causing him to look down at his feet, which were by now planted firmly in her hallway.

 **I can come and get him? – JW**

"You look…nice…lovely…great," Sherlock offered, clearly unable to settle on his preferred adjective.

"I feel terrible," she told him, unwilling to spare him the truth. "About as terrible as you're going to feel in the morning."

 **It's fine. I've dealt with much worse. – MHx**

She turned and headed for the kitchen, knowing that Sherlock would follow. God, this was all she needed. She could see what was going to happen here if she wasn't careful – she would end up taking care of him, putting new sheets on her bed for him, making the world okay for him again.

Instead, she flipped on the cold tap and poured a large glass of water, which she placed firmly on the kitchen island that stood between them.

"Drink this," she told him. "And when you've finished, drink another one. No coffee, Sherlock – it doesn't work. You'll still be drunk, just more awake while you're doing it."

He was staring at the water as though it was a problem to be deduced. Molly picked up her phone again.

"Who are you calling?" he asked, a note of fear in his voice.

Who did he not want her to call? she wondered. John? Mycroft? Once again, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be using her as a safe harbour to protect him from his problems.

"I'm calling you a cab," she told him in what she hoped was her most dispassionate voice. "You need to go to bed."

With his long arm, he reached – lurched - across the island and grabbed the hand that was holding the phone. When their eyes met, she willed herself not to let her expression betray to him the maelstrom of emotions churning inside her.

"I had an idea Molly, a plan – no, no, an _intention,_ " Sherlock began, letting his hand drop from her arm. "I knew what I needed…what I had to do. Told John. But then…I lost it somehow, somewhere...I don't recall."

Molly sighed, bracing her arms against the counter.

"You mean you decided to get drunk instead," she said, feeling an ache building in her chest. "That makes a change, Sherlock, at least. But isn't alcohol a bit pedestrian for you, a bit _predictable_?"

"It was, in my defence, very good Scotch," he replied. "I suppose I should know, as I strongly suspect that it was my Christmas present to John last year."

"Don't joke, Sherlock," Molly replied, furious at the sting she now felt in her eyes. "Don't you dare joke, not tonight, not after everything that's happened. Just getting through today has been almost unbearable. I knew the time would come when we'd have to talk about this, but I thought you would at least grant me the decency of being sober when we did. There's Dutch courage, Sherlock, and then there's getting blind drunk because it's easier than facing up to things…easier than talking about things that matter."

Molly hadn't expected it to come out like that, startled by her own outburst. But to her surprise, Sherlock nodded vigorously, his eyes fixed to the counter top.

"It is easier," he said. "You're right. When I started to think about what I would say to you…how I would do this, there was too much…I was _feeling_ too much, so couldn't think straight. And I kept seeing your face, hearing your voice, and I realised that I had no idea to start…what I do to fix this…how I begin…whether you would even listen to me while I explained."

Molly looked at him: unshaven, hollow-eyed, and almost certainly wearing the same suit he wore the previous day. Whatever feelings he was talking about had wreaked havoc on the man she was used to seeing. She could teach him a thing or two about keeping feelings in check.

"You don't need to explain," she said plainly. "Mycroft was here earlier. I know all about your sister, about her plan…what she made you do."

At that, Sherlock lifted his eyes to her, and Molly felt a shiver course through her. He was looking at her in a way she'd only seen a handful of times before. She had the urge to touch him, to try to heal him like she always did – after all, he'd been through hell.

"I didn't come here to explain that," he said. "I mean…I did…I would have…but I need to explain something else, Molly."

"You don't owe me anything, Sherlock," she said, already hating herself for that instinct she had to smooth everything over for him. "I understand completely. It's just…you have to understand that it's hard for me…it changes things."

"I know," he nodded. "I never before believed that words could have that kind of power. They're just words. I just didn't…didn't take into account what…emotional context can do."

"Your sister knew all about the power of words," Molly said quietly. "The right ones. Or the wrong ones."

"Molly, I can't lose you!" he blurted, the change in tone startling her slightly. He bowed his head, raking both hands through his tangled hair. She saw him swipe angrily at his cheek, and she realised – with a stab of disbelief – that Sherlock Holmes was trying not to cry.

"She made me think that I was going to lose you, and when I realised it was a lie it was too late, because I knew that, with what she made me do, I was going to lose you anyway!"

She couldn't maintain the veneer of hardness; it went against everything she'd ever felt for him. They were friends, and at that moment he needed her friendship.

"You haven't lost me, Sherlock," she said, feeling her own eyes start to well. "You never could. You're still my friend and I…it will just take time…I have to find a way to deal with it."

She wiped a tear from her own cheek.

"I've had a lot of practice," she added, with a wry laugh. "More than seven years of it."

"I don't know how you have borne it so long and so well," Sherlock replied, his eyes meeting hers. "It's been a little over twenty-six hours, and look at me, Molly - I'm a mess."

Molly _was_ looking at him. He seemed to be waiting for something, and it was then that she replayed the words that he had just spoken. He was drawing parallels, trying to make a point, but she felt as though it was eluding her. As he rounded the corner of the counter to stand in front of her, she didn't move away – she wasn't giving ground in her own kitchen, her own house, not any more. Still, she gasped as he grabbed hold of her hand.

"Eurus didn't do this to me, Molly," he said, his voice a low, husky whisper. "You did."

"What?"

"Just by being who you are. You were my friend when I hadn't earned your kindness, the keeper of my secrets when I could trust no-one else, my carer when I tried to destroy my body and my mind – and you loved me when I didn't deserve it. I don't deserve it, Molly, I don't deserve you."

The pace of her heartbeat had accelerated, and she squeezed the hand that held hers as she finally allowed the first tears to fall.

"I know I hurt you," he continued. "Time and again, and particularly yesterday, and all I know is, standing here in front of you, that I never again want to be the cause of your pain, Molly. If what you've felt – what I've made you feel – is a fraction of what I've been enduring, then it has to end. I want to start making things right."

The intensity of his stare was such that she almost had to look away. Taking her other hand, too, she saw him swallow before he went on.

"And if what you feel for me is a fraction of what I feel for you, Molly, then…I hope you'll give me the chance to prove it to you."

Before her brain allowed her to see sense, Molly took her hand from Sherlock's and placed it on his cheek – immediately, she felt him lean into her touch.

"I'm still drunk," he said, blinking. "I feel as though I might have missed something out."

"You did fine," she smiled, feeling a sudden rush of lightness course through her.

"No, no – god, I'm an idiot!" he exclaimed. One hand found her shoulder, the other the side of her face.

"I love you, Molly Hooper. Really and truly and deeply and wholly."

Molly laughed through her tears, which made Sherlock break into a smile as well.

"You know I'm going to make you say it tomorrow when you're sober," she told him.

"I'm going to say it so much you'll be sick of hearing it."

"Don't think that's going to happen," she smiled, as she brought her forehead to meet his. "But your breath smells like a distillery."

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh.

"You're not going to let me kiss you, are you?"

Molly giggled, moving her hand to his chest and playing with his shirt button.

" _Now_ you understand why stealing John's best whisky and getting stupidly, irresponsibly drunk was a really bad idea."

He groaned.

"Keep your mouth closed," Molly ordered him. He obeyed, and she arched up on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his lips. His arms circled her as he responded to the kiss. When they parted, he raised an eyebrow at her.

"You still going to call me that cab?" he asked. "I was rather hoping I might get a better offer."

"Does the sofa count as a better offer?" Molly asked, suppressing a smile and relishing the fact that the balance of power was, for once, in her favour. "You might have to share with Toby."

She felt Sherlock's hands start to roam a little, as though trying a new tactic.

"Would rather share with you," he murmured into her hair.

Molly pulled away and held him at arm's length.

"Drink the water, take a shower, brush your teeth, and text John to let him know you're okay," she told him. "Then, we'll see."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Molly felt Sherlock slide into bed beside her, straight away inching his body towards hers so that she could feel the warmth of him through her pyjamas.

"You smell better," she informed him, over her shoulder.

"Mmm," he responded, positioning himself so that his chest was flush with her back. "I found the aspirin in your bathroom cabinet, I hope you don't mind."

Molly giggled. She settled back against his body.

"It's wearing off?"

"Sort of. I think. Is it possible to still feel drunk while also feeling horribly hungover?"

She felt his arm snake over her body and find a resting place somewhere just above her waist. He tangled his legs with hers, and she slowly traced her toes up and down the length of his shin.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Molly found the hand that held her and laced her fingers with his.

"After everything I've said tonight, I realised that I didn't say that. And I am, Molly, truly sorry."

His voice danced across the skin at the nape of her neck.

"I know," she told. "Just make sure you don't have to say it too often, okay?"

She felt him smile into her shoulder, his nose nuzzling into the crook of her neck. There was a short pause before he spoke.

"I very much want us to have sex very soon."

Molly couldn't help but laugh at the bluntness of this statement.

"Soon and very often," he added. "Will Bamford let you take some holiday?"

"I was keeping it for when I redecorate the hallway," she replied, biting her lip to stifle another laugh.

"I'll save you the bother," he said. "I think you should come and live with me. I mean, the hallway needs decorating there, too, but if you can put up with that – well, and me - I think it would be quite a convenient arrangement. Pleasing even."

This all seemed completely surreal, especially given how fresh the memories of the previous night still were.

"Can Toby come?"

Although she couldn't see his face, she knew he was gritting his teeth.

"Yes, the infernal cat can come," he replied with a sigh of resignation. "But if I even once wake up to find him resting on any part of my anatomy, he's going to be rehomed with Mrs Hudson."

She giggled again, and drew his arm more tightly around her. As she curled her knees upwards, Sherlock's followed her, his strong thighs nestling against hers. She could still detect the faint whiff of scotch in amongst the scent of toothpaste and soap.

"And we should have babies," he declared. "Not immediately, but preferably fairly soon, so that Rosie can be a playmate. Two or three, what do you think?"

"I think," Molly replied, twisting around so that they were facing each other. "…that you make a lot of plans when you're drunk."

His face fell slightly.

"…but it sounds nice," she added, feeling her cheeks colour a little. She reached up to sweep some stray curls from his forehead. His gaze was unwavering, and she tilted her face up to his, capturing his lips once again in a kiss that was soft and purposeful and full of promise. And tasted slightly less of scotch than she expected. Sherlock made a low hum of satisfied appreciation.

"Now get some sleep," she whispered. "Or you'll be good for nothing tomorrow."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her.

"I think, for once, I might obey doctor's orders," he said. "I feel as though it could be in my interests."

"You can count on it," Molly smiled, before turning her back to him again and allowing him to spoon himself around her. Sherlock let out a deep, uninhibited sigh, and placed a soft kiss on her cheek before resting his face against hers.

"Love you, Molly Hooper," he mumbled, drowsily.

"I know. You've told me once or twice before," she smiled, enjoying the new verbal intimacy as much as the physical.

"You're falling behind," he murmured, sounding for all the world on the very precipice of sleep.

For the past seven years, she'd only said the words in her head, or in a safe whisper. And the first time she'd said it out loud, it was against her wishes. But now there was no fear, no powerlessness.

"I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

Almost immediately, Molly felt his body ease slightly, his grip on her slacken.

He was asleep.

 **THE END**


End file.
